oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid
by black.k.kat
Summary: Every soul has to come from somewhere. Starrk's origins are just a little more complicated than he realized.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** T+

 **Warnings:** Character death (mostly Lilynette, and offscreen), swearing, massive canon divergence, friendship, eventual slash, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of Aizen's everything, Harry being Harry, Slytherin cunning, fixing problems through gratuitous violence, lots of headcanons, etc.

 **Word Count:** ~4200

 **Pairings:** eventual Kyōraku/Starrk

 **Summary:** Every soul has to come from somewhere. Starrk's origins are just a little more complicated than he realized.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't hold the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no profit from this.

 **Notes:** Someone on Tumblr made the mistake of comparing a picture of Starrk I reblogged to Sirius Black, and my mind immediately went _wait a minute I know someone_ else _who looks like Sirius too._ And thus, this madness. I don't need another WIP, but seeing as I'm mostly finished with the next few chapters I figured I might as well throw this out there and hope it amuses someone besides my twin and me.

Title from _Blood On My Name_ by The Brothers Bright.

* * *

 _ **oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid**_

The memories don't start coming back until he finds the door.

It's a small archway, far removed from any of the main paths through Las Noches; the only reason Starrk even finds it is because Lilynette insists he can't sleep in their room all day and harries him out the door to take a walk. It's easier to give in to her insistence sometimes, so Starrk covers a yawn and lets her shove him forward.

Because the only thing Starrk wants less than to be awake in general is to have to interact with his fellow Espada, no matter how grateful he is to have comrades who can survive his presence, he turns off at the first branching side corridor, ignoring Lilynette's huff of disapproval.

"You wanted me out of the room, and I'm out of the room," he reminds her pointedly.

Lilynette punches him in the side. "I wanted you not to be lazy, Starrk! This is you being lazy!"

Well, that's true, more or less. But he's not being _entirely_ lazy, so that should be good enough for her. If he says that, though, Lilynette will hit him again, so Starrk keeps his mouth shut beyond a faint sigh.

With a squawk, Lilynette punches him, this time in the hip. "Don't sigh at me! Aizen-sama said we're going to fight soon! You need to be more enthusiastic, Starrk!"

Starrk has no attachment to the idea of fighting Shinigami—his greatest hope is that whatever captain he encounters ends up just as lazy as him. Then they can stage a fight until Aizen gets what he wants, and there will be little risk and less effort required. Not that he's going to say as much to Lilynette, who's still glaring at him.

"I'll fight," he concedes, hoping that will placate her.

"You'd better," she mutters, but as he hoped she subsides with another huff.

Danger temporarily averted, Starrk turns his attention on their surroundings, though there isn't all that much to see. An endless white hallway without windows, corridors branching off of it and doors set into the wall at scattered intervals. Las Noches is _boring_ , though Starrk supposes it's better than an empty desert stacked with Hollow corpses.

"Do you think the Shinigami will be strong?" Lilynette asks, and Starrk glances down at her in surprise. Her arms are folded behind her head, and her one pink eye is fixed ahead, though he can tell all of her thoughts are turned inward.

He makes a noncommittal noise, even as his hand falls unconsciously to rest on his sword hilt. "Aizen-sama was a Shinigami," he points out.

Lilynette just makes a face. "Aizen-sama is hardly a Shinigami anymore," she retorts. "The _others_ , how strong do you think they'll be?"

Strong, Starrk is sure, and he grimaces a little bit, not looking forward to the battle. But Aizen wants Soul Society crushed, and to do that they need to defeat the thirteen divisions. After that, Aizen will make his way to the Soul King and take the throne for himself, but Starrk doesn't particularly care about that part. The other Espada are his friends, if some reluctantly so, and all Starrk wants is to keep them. Anything to keep from going back to before, even if he always had Lilynette with him then.

 _What use is power?_ Starrk thinks bleakly, glancing down at his sword. His fingers tighten around the hilt, the creak of his gloves all too loud in the silence. _Why would anyone want more of it?_

"Starrk?" Lilynette asks curiously, and Starrk blinks, glancing up and to the side. She's ahead of him now. He hadn't even realized he had stopped. Apparently seeing that on his face, she trots back to his side, curling her fingers into his sash and leaning around him. "That ugly old curtain thing? What's so interesting about that?"

Not quite sure what she means, Starrk glances over at the wall and—

Stills.

The corridor branches here, and about halfway down it there's an arch covered by a tattered veil. It's fluttering faintly, even though there's no wind within Las Noches, and there's a low, insistent whisper from the other side that Starrk can make out even a fair distance from it.

"Can you hear that?" he asks, but it's as if someone else is speaking. He can't look away, doesn't want to. A step forward, out of the main hall and into the side corridor, and it's only Lilynette's suddenly firm grip and stubbornly planted feet that pulls him up short.

"Don't, Starrk!" she says insistently, and when he glances back there's something almost like fear in her face. "There shouldn't be voices, that's creepy!"

Exasperation makes Starrk roll his eyes, though he stops moving. "You turn into a talking gun," he reminds his other half, and she makes a face at him.

"Yeah, but that's _different_!"

Starrk supposes that it is.

"It feels…familiar," he says, and can't quite help taking another glance at the veil. His sword suddenly doesn't feel entirely right in his hand—it should be smaller, lighter, beech instead of steel. But that makes no sense at all, because a sword is—

Hands. Hands on him, dragging him down, wet and cold and entirely immovable. He chokes for breath but there's only water filling his lungs, a burning, searing thirst that nothing can quench. Memories, fears, loneliness that sears like fire straight down to his bones and he thinks _This is how I die. Alone, lost, abandoned_ —

The inside of his left forearm is burning.

This time, Starrk doesn't need Lilynette's urging to take a step back.

"What the hell was that?!" she demands, and her voice is shrill enough that Starrk knows she saw it too. Not unreasonable—they're the same soul split into two bodies, after all.

"I…don't know," he answers slowly, but—

But that's not quite true.

There's the image of a castle, somewhere in his memory. An old house, tall and dark and dreary, with a cold man and a sharp woman and a reckless boy within. Not good memories, not exactly, but they don't come with the overwhelming fear of the first recollection. All of it is linked, tied together by that not-right feel when he touches his sword. Starrk flexes his fingers, glancing down at them as if they've become someone else's, but he sees no change in them. Nothing outwardly remarkable, but…he can feel it.

A green spark crackles to life and crawls across the backs of his knuckles, then sizzles out in the air.

"Let's go, Starrk," Lilynette insists, tugging hard on his sash. Her one eye is wide and the closest to fearful that Starrk has ever seen it. "I don't like it here."

Starrk doesn't, either, but—

But.

He drags his eyes away from the fluttering veil, closes his hand more firmly around the pommel of his sword. "Let's go," he agrees, and it takes everything in him not to turn around and look back the moment he steps away.

The whispers fade away behind them, even though Starrk half-thought they wouldn't.

"Geez," Lilynette mutters when they've put a good distance between themselves and that hall. She folds her arms behind her head again, even though she still looks faintly wary, and huffs. "Aizen-sama's got the weirdest crap floating around, doesn't he, Starrk?"

It's been a long time since Starrk stopped trying to get Lilynette to be respectful of anyone, so he doesn't bother answering beyond a faint hum. He keeps his steps long and purposeful, and wonders how long it will take her to notice—

"Oi, Starrk! What the hell are we going back this way for?! Starrk! I'm talking to you, you big jerk! Oi, oi, oi! Don't you dare go lie down again, I just got you up! Starrk!"

* * *

Aizen fails, Lilynette sacrifices herself, and Starrk falls. The false city trembles beneath him long after the last of the Espada are dead, and he closes his eyes, wondering if for a second time he's going to die entirely alone.

At least this time he isn't drowning.

That might be better, though, he thinks. Like this he doesn't even have the strength to press a hand to the wound that's killing him, and he's not sure he would even if he could. Lilynette's loss has left a hole inside of him, a piece of his very self carved out and cut away, and he's finding it hard to breathe. She was him, was another part of him, and now his soul has been split and he's more alone than he ever was.

He was loyal to Aizen, but Aizen only ever thought of them as pawns to win a throne. He was loyal to the other Espada, but no one else bothered to mourn the others as they fell one by one, and now he has to wonder if he was the only one these bonds mattered to.

Very likely. All too likely.

Starrk's breath rattles in his chest, wet and thick, and he can taste the blood in his mouth. Drowning, at least, was relatively quick, especially since he fought the hands pulling him down every inch of the way. This is slow and gradual and tedious, only the pain to break the monotony, and Starrk just wishes it were _over_. Maybe, if Arrancar are allowed to reincarnate, Lilynette will be—

Geta clack against stone, and the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat falls over his face.

"My, my," an inordinately cheerful voice says, brightness just covering the heavy weariness beneath. "So Kyōraku was right all along. He'll be insufferable now. Well, more insufferable than normal."

Starrk just manages to force his eyes open, and the world swims sickeningly. He takes a painful breath, tries to ignore the way it doesn't quite fill his lungs as it should, and blinks until his vision clears.

There's a Shinigami leaning over him, though this one isn't wearing a captain's haori or even a shihakusho, despite the heavy feeling of his power. Pale blond hair falls limply across his face, and he looks like he just dragged himself off his deathbed to come and die on top of Starrk.

Apparently come of that must show on Starrk's face, because the Shinigami chuckles a little, reaching up to tip his hat forward and shadow his eyes. "You'll be fine, Primera. I'm not about to expire just yet. Not in our moment of victory." Grey eyes catch the grimace Starrk can't quite hide, and his smirk softens. "Well, there's a scary face. Was that for Aizen's sake, I wonder?"

"Almost as though we have emotions, isn't it?" Starrk grits out, and Kyōraku's jab at him still stings. He's Aizen's Primera, or was—if there's one thing he's unaccustomed to it's being looked down on.

The Shinigami raises his hands, though there's amusement in the curl of his lips. "Ah, no need to be so touchy. I think everyone had their eyes opened to unexpected possibilities today." He hesitates, something like grief crossing his features only to be swiftly buried, and he kneels down beside Starrk with a huff like it hurts to move. "Now, Primera, you don't look all that well. I can't say I'd normally care, but Captain Kyōraku had an idea that you might still be alive and asked me to look for you."

The captain did? Starrk lets out an amused breath, not enough air in his lungs to actually laugh. "After he cut me down?" he demands, breathless but incredulous.

The man's smile is a little wry, but mostly tired. "I think he saw something in you, Primera. Something that ran deep enough for him to send a message to a humble shopkeeper like me."

If this man is just a shopkeeper, Starrk will hunt down Grimmjow and kiss him full on the mouth the moment he can stand.

Apparently that shows on Starrk's face too, because the Shinigami laughs a little, weary but amused. "Urahara Kisuke," he offers, and there's a spark of mirth in pale grey eyes. "Now hold still—Tessai is the one skilled at healing, not me."

With that comforting pronouncement, he presses a hand to Starrk's chest, eyes narrowing with concentration. Starrk can't move anyway, so he doesn't have any choice but to lie where he fell as reiatsu surges around them. It's a prickly sort of warmth, with an edge like a needle stitching everything back together, and Starrk has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out as his flesh knits itself up. Every limb prickles madly as life returns, and Starrk's back arches as something that feels like adrenaline slams through him. Before he can even think, he's bolting to his feet, unsteady but still quick, and lashing out with one gloved hand.

Grey eyes go wide, and Urahara moves, reaching for his cane, but it's too slow. He's sluggish, even more of his power spent on Starrk when he had little to spare, and Starrk's blow catches him in the side of the face. He goes down, and Starrk takes one staggering step and slashes a desperate hand down through the air.

The garganta is agonizingly slow as it splits the air, but the moment it's wide enough Starrk hurls himself through and seals it again.

He slams down onto cold tile with a cry that escapes through gritted teeth, jarring everything, and then rolls over onto his back, staring up at the high white ceiling as he tries to catch his breath. His head is spinning sickeningly, and it's only very belatedly that he realizes the shinigami's healing kido closed his wounds, but likely wouldn't have restored the blood he'd already lost.

At least he has an excuse for his idiocy, he thinks wryly, closing his eyes and trying to focus on breathing steadily.

(Lilynette was always his logic, wasn't she?)

Another breath, slow and careful, and he gets an arm underneath himself, pushing up to sit. His sheathed sword bumps against his leg, making him wince as it brushes a long gash from the Vizards' part in the fight, but he manages to gather himself enough to stand, even if it takes a moment.

He's in the halls of Las Noches, in one of the many identical corridors. Right where the corridor branches, actually, and there's a low, insistent whisper in the air.

Starrk doesn't have to look to know the veil is there, swaying in a breeze he can't feel.

His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword again, and he braces an arm against the wall for balance. It's been a few weeks since he was last here; Lilynette hadn't wanted to come back, and even though Starrk had he'd respected her very persistent wishes. Hearing it now, though, it's as if he never left. There's still a tingle deep in his blood, like a tuning fork struck at just the right note to resonate straight through to his bones, and he feels the pull of the tattered cloth as if it were a well of gravity pulling him in.

The whispers aren't quite words, but as Starrk takes another step closer, then another, he thinks he might almost hear them regardless.

 _Sirius_ , one says, and it hits Starrk like one of Kyōraku's blows to leave him feeling just as breathless.

Another step, another whispered _Sirius_ and Starrk has to close his eyes against the force of it, curl his fingers into the stone and breath carefully. He thinks of stars, of bright, laughing grins, of cold grey eyes closer to silver than Urahara's pale grey. Thinks of a hand on his shoulder, a sneer in a forgotten hallway, a wry, regretful smile as a heavy door swings shut. It _aches_ , aches the same way Lilynette's absence does, and Starrk hunches over, fisting a hand against his chest as if to guard himself from it. There's no use, though, no way to avoid the pain, and he frames the familiar name on his lips as he takes a staggering step forward.

There's little time; the shinigami have already invaded Aizen's stronghold once, and Starrk has no doubt that they'll do so again when Urahara reports what happened. He definitely will, because whatever Kyōraku's request, it likely ended in orders to capture Starrk and take him to Soul Society. Leaving a dangerous enemy loose is foolish, after all.

Kyōraku might have played at being a fool, but he was the very furthest thing from it, in the end.

A part of Starrk that sounds agonizingly like Lilynette tells him that he should run, retreat into the deserts of Hueco Mundo and lose any pursuers there. The call of the veil is too strong, though, and even if it weren't, Starrk isn't entirely sure he could go back to living that way, always alone and wandering. He's tasted closeness now, with Lilynette and later with the rest of the Espada, and even if the Espada didn't return the sentiment, that doesn't change the fact that _Starrk_ felt it.

Lilynette always told him he was an idiot, and Starrk knows with absolute certainty that she was entirely correct.

The tattered cloth sways, just a handful of steps in front of him, and Starrk pushes fully upright, eyes fixed on it. He drags his thoughts away from Lilynette, makes himself think of other things instead. Things like _Sirius_ , still resonating through him. There are other words as well, _Kreacher_ and _Bellatrix_ and _Andromeda_ , but none of them have quite the same feel as the first. That one tastes of regret and love and sorrow, of desperation and decisions. It's not the sort of thing he can forget, for all that he seems to have forgotten it once already.

From behind him, deeper into the stronghold, there's a sudden, ringing crash. Starrk jolts before he can help it, takes a staggering step forward and then keeps going. It doesn't matter if that was a shinigami or another Espada, though he doubts any of their number are left at this point; both can be counted as enemies, now that Aizen no longer holds the Espada together. Starrk is—was—Primera, and his strength won him few friends and too many rivals. Most of them would happily see him dead now.

There's no time for consideration, for second thoughts; Starrk throws himself forward, through the veil, and feels something far vaster than a tattered curtain part around him.

It doesn't hurt, which is a kind surprise at this point. There's a rush of passing air, darkness and stars and spinning light that weaves before his eyes, and it's enough to make Starrk swallow hard as nausea rises. He falls and it could be for an eon, for a moment—there's no way of telling, just light and cold and _absence_ , and then—

Impact.

He hits the ground on his feet, but loses his balance and tumbles forward, slamming shoulder-first into pavement. His skull bounces off, making his vision go entirely dark for a moment, and when it clears again he's just rolling to a stop against the curb, sore and battered with his head swimming and lights dancing behind his eyes.

Over the ringing in his ears, he can just make out the sound of clumsy, hurried footsteps.

His wand, Starrk thinks blearily, reaching for it, but it isn't in his sleeve where it should be. Did he break it? Did he _lose_ it? Rare enough that a beech wand chose him the first time; he doesn't want to risk having to try again, because as he is now—

A cough rattles his whole frame, flooding his mouth with the taste of copper, and he manages a grimace. Not as healed as he would like, not healed enough, but—

It will have to do.

Maybe, he thinks dazedly, closing his eyes, he shouldn't have been so quick to punch Urahara. A little more repair to this damned body would have been appreciated.

"Are you all right?" a child's voice demands, and for one mad moment Starrk think _Lilynette_ even though he knows it isn't. A boy instead, by the sound, but not too young. There's strength in the hands that grip his shoulder, rolling him carefully until he's flat on his back, and Starrk swallows a groan and opens his eyes again. The world swims, streetlights silhouetted against the night sky nearly blinding, and he squints desperately, trying to make the face above him resolve into recognizable lines.

The sickening lurch doesn't fade, but he catches a glimpse of wildly messy black hair and thick-rimmed glasses, a face that shouldn't be familiar but _is_. Starrk raises a hand, floundering, but fingertips bared by torn cloth meet warm skin, and Starrk takes a rasping breath and forces out, "James?"

The name is unfamiliar but at the same time so easy to grasp. So too is the image that comes with it. Messy black hair and a warm brown eyes and laughter, seen from high in the air above the pitch. Red and gold, worn leather, a flash of gold whipping past, and Starrk has to take another breath before he gets lost in that fractured moment.

"James," he repeats, and it sounds right this time, comes more easily. There's a fog in his head, worse than any encounter with Aizen's crushing chakra, and he can feel himself wavering back towards darkness. "Where's….Sirius. He went to you…honorary Potter." There's that flash again, a regretful smile and a door closing with chilling finality, and Starrk doesn't remember but he also _does_ , remembers standing in a dark hallway watching someone dear to him step out of his life.

"What?" the boy says, and he sounds as dazed as Starrk feels. "You—you knew James Potter?"

Did he? Starrk can't quite recall. It's all mixed up inside his head, too many pieces but not enough all at once. There's green in front of him, though, and that's familiar too. "Evans?" he asks, but the hair under his fingers is black instead of red, and that's not correct. Not important right now, either, not in the face of the empty space beside him. Lilynette, he thinks again. But—

He's missing something else, too.

"My wand," he tells the boy, who is maybe James and probably not Lily and will likely know where Sirius is, though he doesn't quite remember why that's important. "I need to find it. Or—or my sword."

A pause, and a tentative hand covers Starrk's where it rests on the boy's cheek. "Your sword's right here," the boy says, guiding Starrk's hand down to brush the warm wrapping on the beechwood hilt.

"Oh," Starrk says, surprised even if he can't pinpoint why, and the relief is strong enough to make him slump, eyes fluttering shut once more.

Green sparks swim behind his eyelids, thick and bright, and darkness follows, but at least this time he isn't falling.

The last thing that echoes in his mind before he loses consciousness entirely is _My name—Starrk?_

 _Regulus._

The pieces rearrange themselves, still jagged and fractured, but—

There's a whole now, rather than just chaos.

It's enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating:** T+

 **Warnings:** Character death (mostly past and offscreen), massive canon divergence, friendship, angst, eventual slash, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood, Harry being Harry, etc.

 **Word Count:** ~5200

 **Pairings:** eventual Kyōraku/Starrk, implied past (and one-sided) James Potter/Regulus Black

 **Disclaimer:** I don't hold the copyrights, I didn't create them, and I make no profit from this.

 **Notes:** Hey look, Kat managed to update before a terrestrial age passed! Clearly it's a miracle. A few lines here are borrowed from _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ —you'll probably recognize them when you see them.

(Also, thank you _so much_ for your enthusiasm and kindness regarding this story. I'm a little overwhelmed with how positive the reactions have been. You're the best!)

* * *

 _ **oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid**_

 _Chapter 2_

Harry doesn't have a single bloody idea what he should do now.

Bad enough to have turned Aunt Marge into a balloon—that's probably going to get him expelled. Or arrested. Or _both_. And now…this. Whatever this is.

He'd been halfway through the extent of his grand escape plan, not that there was all that much of it, when a man had fallen out of thin air, battered and bloody with strange white robes and a _sword_ , and hit the ground hard enough that Harry was afraid for a brief moment that he was dead.

The man's obviously a wizard, asking about his wand and dressing like that, but Harry's never seen him before. And yet—

 _James_ , the man said. And _Lily_ , squinting up at Harry like he couldn't quite tell who he was. Harry's had enough people tell him he looks just like his father to realize that the wizard probably mixed them up since he was so confused. But really, what are the odds that someone who knew Harry's parents would appear right in front of him, literally out of nowhere, half-covered in blood and looking like he'd just come out of a massive fight?

Well. Good enough that it actually happened, Harry supposes.

The panic that came hot on the heels of fleeing the Dursleys' house is still there, lurking in his chest, as is the slow-boil anger at Aunt Marge's words, but most of it is buried under confusion and worry for the man lying next to him. Harry managed to drag him a little further out of the street, but he's almost offensively tall and too heavy to do more than roll a bit, so Harry has to be content with covering him in his too-small cloak and settling down on the curb beside him.

There's blood on the side of the man's head, but not too much—not as much as is staining his robes, which is frankly rather alarming in quantity—and his breathing is steady. It's been only a few minutes since he passed out, but Harry is hoping he wakes up again soon. He has no idea how he'd possibly explain this to a Muggle policeman, and he doesn't particularly want to try.

It would probably be best to leave right now, get his Invisibility Cloak and charm his trunk to be lighter and fly to London on his broom. It's not a _good_ plan, but it's about the best Harry has at the moment. The Ministry is probably looking for him, and Magnolia Crescent is a little too close to the Dursleys' for comfort if they start the search there.

But—

But this stranger is hurt, and knew Harry's parents, and Harry can't just abandon him on the street.

A low groan from beside him makes his head snap up, and he turns to look at the man as he stirs. A grimace crosses his face, pain all too evident in the expression, but after a moment blue-grey eyes slide open with clear effort. The man's hand in its ragged glove tightens over the hilt of his sword for just a moment, then relaxes, and he turns his head slowly to look at Harry.

There's a pause as Harry tries not to blurt out _who in Merlin's name are you_ and mostly succeeds.

With a careful breath and another grimace, the man gets an arm underneath himself and cautiously pushes upright. Harry reaches out to help, only to abort the motion when the man's breath catches on a pained gasp, and the stranger slumps forward, wrapping an arm around his stomach. His unruly brown hair tumbles around his face, hiding it from view, but Harry can see the fine tremor running through him.

"You're not James," the man says after a long moment, raising his head enough to look at Harry. Some of the confusion from before is still present in his face, but he looks a lot more aware than last time and also not half-dead, which is a definite improvement.

Self-consciously, Harry brushes his hair forward over his scar. "Er, he was—he was my dad. You knew him?"

The man looks mildly perplexed, as if he doesn't quite know the answer to that, either. "I…did," he says slowly, like he's just realizing it's true. Another pause, and he runs a hand through his hair, scraping it back from his face. "Was," he repeats, and winces a little. "Sirius must be devastated."

This is not looking to be an enlightening conversation. "Sirius," Harry echoes with confusion. "I don't know who that is."

"My brother," the man says, and then stops, as if the statement surprised him too. There's a thoughtful pause, and he chuckles a little, wry and tired. "I'm…Regulus. Regulus Arcturus…something. James and I—we were at…a school?"

"Hogwarts?" Harry supplies Though two thirds of a name is at least a start. "You were at Hogwarts with my dad?"

Regulus closes his eyes, tipping his head back. "Hogwarts. Yes? I can remember just… We were up in the air. He was wearing red and gold, and there was something small—wings. It had wings."

"Quidditch. You played Quidditch with my dad?" Harry honestly isn't expecting much of an answer, but the words seem to help, so he's willing to supply as many of them as he can.

"Against," Regulus corrects, and then winces and rubs at his head. His fingers graze the bloody patch where his skull hit the pavement and he stops, then pulls his hand away and glances at the blood on his fingers with a frown.

Not a Gryffindor, then, though Harry supposes it doesn't matter much. Regulus doesn't really look old enough to have been in the same year as his father, even if wizards and witches age differently than Muggles. "Did you get hit with a Memory Charm?" he asks, a little tentatively. Easy enough to think of Lockhart just a few months ago, though Regulus doesn't seem anywhere near as mentally blank as Lockhart did after his encounter with Ron's backfiring wand.

To his surprise, Regulus's frown smooths out into an expression of distraction. "Memory Charm—created by Mnemone Radford in 1604, part of the mental modification family of charms, and only capable of being broken under…torture." He pauses, as if considering, and then shakes his head. "No. No one tortured me. I think I was…someone else for a while, that's all. Maybe I still am." Raising a hand, he tugs his ruined glove off, then studies the number one tattooed on his skin with a contemplative expression.

That doesn't make much sense at all to Harry. "You mean…you forgot who you were?"

"Mm." Regulus glances up, and it's like meeting the stare of a wolf, those pale eyes against the tan of his skin and the deep brown of his hair. "Not quite. There's forgetting and then there's _becoming_."

Ah yes. That clears up so much, Harry thinks, exasperated.

He doesn't realize he's said it aloud until Regulus chuckles, humor slipping into his quiet features. "Sorry," the wizard offers. "My head's all jumbled."

This isn't exactly news, so Harry just nods, accepting it. "Do you—do you remember why you're hurt?"

Regulus blinks, then looks down at himself. "I'm still Starrk, even if being Regulus is still fuzzy," he says, like this is an explanation. "It was a Shinigami. Captain Kyōraku."

That's not much of an explanation, either, but before Harry can say anything more Regulus—Starrk?—glances at him, then at his abandoned trunk, and asks, "What is James Potter's son doing outside in the middle of the night?"

"It's not that late," is Harry's slightly feeble protest. When Regulus just lifts a brow, Harry flushes, glancing down, and makes a face at the threadbare knees of his jeans. "I, er. Inflated my aunt? The Ministry's probably coming to throw me in Azkaban," he adds gloomily. "I couldn't just stay with my aunt and uncle."

Regulus is frowning again, with a faintly distracted air that says he's trying to remember something. "Your…aunt and uncle? But if James and Lily are dead, Sirius should have, or Lupin, or Pettigrew—there's no way James wouldn't have made _one_ of them your godfather."

Harry's certainly never heard anything about a godfather, so he can't offer any help there. "Aunt Petunia is my mum's sister," he says. "She's—I've never heard of any of those people before."

With a low sound of pain, Regulus hunches forward again, rubbing at his temples. "I can't remember," he says, and it's not quite blatant frustration in his tone, but it's close. "They didn't—there was a war, but Sirius couldn't have—"

 _Died_ , he doesn't say, though Harry hears the word anyway. He suspects that Regulus is trying to convince himself more than Harry, though, so he keeps his peace.

"Do you—are you going to try to find him?" Harry asks instead. "It's been a while, but…"

Regulus closes his eyes. "As many years as you've been alive, at least."

That's longer than Harry had expected, an almost painfully long time to think of being separated from family, to think of them not knowing Regulus's fate and Regulus not knowing theirs. He hesitates, not sure of what to say, but before he can think of anything Regulus's eyes open again, wolf-stare landing on Harry.

"There was a family house," he says, slow like he's weighing each word as he speaks it. "In London. You have nowhere to go, and I need to find out what happened. Would you like to come?"

There's every conceivable reason to say no. Harry doesn't know this man, he's more or less on the run with the threat of Ministry punishment bearing down on him, no home to go back to, Hermione and Ron both out of the country and no one else he can turn to. Being desperate doesn't exactly lend itself to good decision-making, Harry knows.

But—

But Regulus knows something about his parents. Knows about his parents' friends, about men who should have been his godfather, about his father in school. He needs help, too—there's far too much blood on his robes, and a trickle sliding down his cheek from his hairline. He's pale, and Harry can't push down the sharp flicker of concern in his chest.

"I would," he says, and maybe it wavers slightly, but Harry still means it. So easy, on the heels of Marge's words, to cling to this small piece of his parents. Regulus was a schoolmate, maybe a friend, and knows people who _were_ his parents' friends. Maybe Harry can find out the names of the people in his photo album. Maybe Regulus even knows stories about his parents, if his brother was close enough to Harry's dad that he should have been Harry's godfather.

Regulus doesn't quite smile, but there's warmth in pale eyes, and he nods easily. Before he can say anything, though, something prickles down Harry's spine, like eyes on him in the dark. He stiffens, and in the same moment Regulus surges to his feet, drawing his sword in one smooth movement. The light from the streetlamps scatters across the silver of the blade as he turns.

Harry follows his gaze as it sweeps across Magnolia Crescent, but his eyes keep darting back to the shadowed alley between the garage and fence behind him. He doesn't want to think that there's something there, watching them, but there _is_ , he's sure of it. His wand is in his pocket, and he pulls it out even as he steps back towards Regulus. " _Lumos_."

A hand closes on his shoulder even as the light sweeps over a hulking shape with gleaming eyes, and Regulus yanks him back and out of the thing's line of sight. Harry yelps as he falls, caught off-guard and halfway through a step, and trips backwards over his trunk. He clutches desperately to his wand even as he falls, throwing out one arm to catch himself even though he already knows it's hopeless, and sees Regulus jerk, clearly torn between lunging to save Harry and going after their watcher. He hits the ground hard, almost losing his grip on his wand—

There's a deafening _bang_ and a flare of light.

In the same moment a hand grabs Harry's collar, snatching him up and away as wheels screech to a stop in the same spot he occupied just an instant beforehand. Regulus practically hoists him back to his feet as the triple-decker purple bus creaks and settles.

It's… _really_ purple. Harry had kind of thought he was used to the wizarding world's eccentricities by now, but this is a lot to take in.

Before he can demand what just happened—not that Regulus looks any more sure than he feels—a conductor in a purple uniform hops out, all protruding ears and pimples. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be…your…conductor?"

He trails off, blinking at Harry and Regulus with a bewildered expression. Harry blinks back, then glances behind him at where Regulus is watching with faintly narrowed eyes. His sword is still in one hand, and his white robes are mostly red with drying blood. As Harry watches, a drop falls from the curve of his jaw to stain the black-edged collar, and Harry abruptly realizes that Regulus looks pretty much precisely like a murder victim. Or maybe a murderer.

" 'Choo all right over there?" Stan asks cautiously.

"Fine," Regulus answers curtly, though his eyes flicker back to the alley. Harry looks, too, but in the light from the bus the gap is empty. There's nothing there.

With a hiss of metal over cloth, Regulus sheathes his sword, his eyes still on the spot where the creature—a dog, Harry thinks, but absolutely massive—was lurking. There's a distinct feeling that Stan is beneath his notice, so Harry glances at Regulus, then back to the conductor, and says, "Er, can you really go anywhere?"

Stan drags his faintly horrified stare away from Regulus, glancing down at Harry, who nervously flattens his hair over his scar. "Yep," Stan confirms, and there's a hint of pride in his voice. "Anywhere you like, so long's it's on land. Can't do nuffink underwater."

"How much to get to London?" Harry has plenty of gold with him, while Regulus doesn't look like he has much of anything. He drags the lid off his trunk, rummaging through to find his money bag, and picks up the winter cloak that ended up in the thankfully dry gutter when Regulus stood.

"Eleven Sickles," Stan answers promptly. "But for firteen—"

"Not Diagon Alley," Regulus interrupts, finally turning his attention on the conductor. Stan all but flinches, looking like he'd much rather Regulus have kept facing away. Not that Harry blames him; there's a slant to Regulus's mouth, a darkness that the shifting shadows bring out around his eyes, and even though he's reserved and quiet he still looks strangely dangerous in a way that is only passingly related to his bloodstained clothes. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Well, that's two more names than he seemed to know a minute ago, so Harry's going to take it as a good sign.

"Sure, sure," Stan agrees instantly, all but snatching up the two Galleons Harry offers him. He grabs Harry's trunk, and Harry gets the other end, helping him heave it up the stairs with Hedwig's cage balanced on top. With one last glance around the street, Regulus follows them up the stairs. Harry watches him carefully, but he's steady enough on his feet, even if he briefly grips the handrail so hard his knuckles whiten.

"Woss your name?" Stan asks as they stow the trunk under one of the beds several down from the armchair the driver is sitting in. He seems to have decided that Harry's the one to talk to, rather understandably. Regulus's current way of standing, even when he's so pale he looks like a ghost, is rather more like looming, and he has one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Er," Harry says, mind instantly going blank. He's not about to give the man his real name—no need to make things easier for the Ministry if they're trying to find him—but he can't think of anything.

"Coyote Starrk," Regulus says unexpectedly as he sinks down onto the bed, one hand pressed against his side. "And my godson James."

Not exactly what Harry would have picked, but Stan thankfully doesn't blink at the strange name— _Coyote_ , Harry thinks a little disbelieving; does Regulus think he's a cowboy or something?—and waves a hand at the driver. "This is our driver, Ernie Prang. Ern, this is James and Mister Starrk."

The elderly driver nods back to them, thick glasses catching the light, and Harry offers a faintly nervous smile as he brushes his bangs down again. Carefully, he takes a seat on the bed next to Regulus's, casting a curious look over the interior of the bus. The paleness of Regulus's face is a distraction, though, and Harry asks quietly, "Are you okay?" as Stan takes a set next to Ernie.

Regulus nods, though he leans back against the headboard carefully. "I will be," he says simply. Pale eyes close for a moment before they slide open again, heavy-lidded but mostly alert.

Briefly, Harry gets sidetracked watching the Knight Bus leap forward, trash bins and street lamps scattering out of its path before they snap back into place behind it. Every _bang_ seems to carry them at least a hundred miles, and Harry has to hang on tightly or be knocked right off the bed by the momentum of it.

Still, once the novelty has rather worn off, Harry can't help but glance back at Regulus, who's awake but slumped back against the pillows. All too aware of the looks Stan keeps sneaking at them, Harry lowers his voice and says, "Er, you—you said you'd been gone for years. Where were you when you…" He doesn't quite want to say _forgot who you were_ , but _were becoming someone else_ doesn't seem right either.

Thankfully, Regulus understands without him having to finish. "I was dead, or something like it," he says.

 _What_? How is that any sort of answer? "I hadn't though there was a lot of wiggle room," Harry says, a little perturbed. "Aren't you either gone or…not?"

A shadow of a smile crosses Regulus's face. "Yes. But _not_ is a rather large area. Sometimes souls linger. Sometimes they have business, or sometimes they're angry. Or hungry. Or…lonely."

"Like ghosts?" Harry has definitely seen his share of those, but Regulus isn't anything like the Hogwarts ghosts. Not in the least.

"Mm. Ghosts are the start of it. With the right power, and motivations, there are…chances. I was given one." With a faint wince, Regulus presses a hand to his chest. The white fabric there dents slightly, like there's a dip, but before Harry can start to worry, Regulus adds, "The lord who gave it to us led us into a war. I survived." His faint smile is humorless and tired, like he wishes he hadn't, and it takes effort for Harry not to wince. He's willing to bet that the other parts of that 'us' weren't quite so lucky.

Before Harry can think of a safer subject, though, Regulus glances towards the front of the bus, then stiffens. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pushing painfully to his feet, and too fast for Harry to even get up and steady him he's heading for where Stan has just flipped open a copy of _Daily Prophet_. Harry gets half a glimpse of the picture taking up the front page before Regulus's body blocks his line of sight.

"May I see that?" Regulus asks, polite but firm.

Stan takes one look at his face and hands over the front page. "You want more? 'Cause I can—"

"This is fine." Regulus staggers a step as the bus takes another lurching leap, and this time Harry manages to get there in time to grab his elbow and hold him steady as he steers the man back towards the bed, newspaper gripped tightly in one hand.

"What is it?" Harry asks curiously, leaning over to get a better look at the headline.

Silently, Regulus shakes the page flat, revealing a photo that takes up most of the front page, of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair. BLACK STILL AT LARGE _,_ the headline reads, and the face is familiar even if Harry has never seen the man in person before.

"He was on the Muggle news," Harry says, not quite able to help a frown. "What did he—"

"It's Sirius," Regulus says, low and sharp, his eyes fixed on the man's face as Black blinks slowly.

"Your—your _brother_ Sirius?" Harry demands, shoving his glasses up so he can see the article beneath the picture. "Sirius who was my dad's friend?"

Regulus doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. Harry scans the paper, taking in the details—mad, dangerous, escaped prisoner, murdered thirteen people with one curse—and feels his heart sink in his chest.

"Well," he says, and can't quite manage to keep it light. "I guess that's why he wasn't around to be my godfather."

If anything, though, Regulus's frown is deepening. He curls his fingers around his left forearm, rubbing the inside of it through the sleeve of his robes with the air of an old habit. "Sirius wouldn't have killed Muggles. He was—he hated being a Black."

Harry isn't sure what that has to do with anything. "A Black?" he echoes.

Confusion flickers over Regulus's face, then frustration, like he's grasping for a memory that's just out of reach. "He left," Regulus says, though it's less an answer to Harry's question than it is the voicing of some fractured thought. "The door closed. He was…smiling." Blue-grey eyes fall shut, and Regulus's expression twists. "Honorary Potter. That's what James always said."

Which doesn't help with the faint, nebulous sense of betrayal churning in Harry's stomach. To know that his father's friend, close enough to be considered family, turned into murderer doesn't exactly sit easily with him. "Maybe he changed? If you were gone, you can't know—"

"It's _Sirius_ ," Regulus interrupts, though his voice stays even. "He would never be capable of changing that much."

Harry wants to believe in Regulus's faith, if nothing else, but… "Then what happened?" he asks quietly.

"Twelve years ago, I was already dead." Regulus's finger brushes over the paper just beneath Black's picture, and his expression is grim. "I'm not sure."

Harry can think of quite a lot that happened twelve years ago, but he isn't sure how any of it is related, so he keeps silent as the Knight Bus barrels towards its next stop.

* * *

Shunsui is less than enchanted with Las Noches, to be quite honest. It's flat and dull and boringly white, a confusing mass of passages and rooms that seem designed to mislead the unwary.

Given that it was Aizen who made his headquarters here, Shunsui wouldn't be surprised to find that was the exact reasoning behind it.

"You're very insistent about this, aren't you?" Urahara says lightly, even as he waves a device in from of them. Shunsui doesn't need to look to know there are sharp grey eyes on him, half-hidden under the shadow of Urahara's hat.

Shunsui chuckles, even though it makes something in his side ache unpleasantly. "Ah, I suppose I am," he agrees easily. "Though I'd expect you to be just as eager to find Starrk, given how easily he took you down, Kisuke."

Urahara pouts convincingly. "At least I came out of my bout with Aizen still on my feet," he retorts, though there's no real offense in his voice. "You were hardly conscious, Kyōraku-san, so if anyone should be making comments like that, I think it's me."

With a quiet laugh, Shunsui tips his sakkat and concedes the point, even as something in his gut sours at the reminder of the other captains who weren't quite so lucky. Juushiro, for one, and maybe that's a good portion of the reason Shunsui agreed to accompany Urahara here so readily. His only other option is taking up residence at Juushiro's bedside, and he knows his old friend would berate him for hovering.

At least right now he can pretend he's thinking about the safety of Soul Society, even if the reality is something far closer to personal curiosity.

"Anything?" he asks, rather than admit his thoughts.

Urahara frowns thoughtfully at the device. "We're close to where someone came through—the most recent Garganta opened up a short ways from here. I believe it's his reiatsu, though I didn't get much of a sample before he bolted."

Shunsui doesn't blame Starrk for that reaction; with Aizen defeated, his partner gone, and the majority of the Espada dead, the Primera didn't have much of a reason to stick around. And while Shunsui doesn't exactly think he'll cause trouble, he also doesn't want to be mistaken and end up with any more deaths on his head.

Starrk hadn't wanted to fight at all, even if he eventually had out of some sense of indebtedness to Aizen. His morals were clear, and his regard for his partner even more so. When the girl sacrificed herself—

Shunsui had thought of Juushiro falling, a hole torn through his chest, and hadn't been able to push down a flicker of deep-seated sympathy for the Espada.

He hasn't allowed himself to forget that Starrk is dangerous, though. He was easily the strongest of the Arrancar, even if Barragan led them into battle, and if he disappears into the World of the Living Shunsui is sure things will turn ugly very quickly. Add in Soul Society's debt to Kurosaki Ichigo after all he did and all he sacrificed for them, and Shunsui knows there's no choice but to track Starrk down.

Halfway through a sweep, Urahara's device lights up, dials spinning, and the former captain makes a sound of victory.

"Aha!" he says cheerfully, waving the black box in Shunsui's face. "Here we are! This is where he landed."

The white tiles on the floor are smeared with blood, though little enough that Shunsui is fairly certain Starrk wasn't in the process of bleeding out. He studies the spot, then a smear on the wall that must have come from a glove as Starrk levered himself to his feet. The corridor branches here, and Shunsui glances down the side passage—

And stops, every muscle going tense.

"Kisuke?" he says, and long centuries of practice keep his voice light.

"It's not a Senkaimon." For once Urahara's voice is very close to serious as he steps past Shunsui, a hand tight around Benihime's handle. "Though I would suspect it isn't entirely different, either. Aizen must have been researching it." A glance takes in a few scattered drops of blood on the tiles in front of the archway and veil, and then he looks back at Shunsui. "I'll get my equipment and let you know where it leads as soon as—"

"As soon as you get some rest," Shunsui cuts in, managing a cheerful smile for the younger man with a bit of effort. "Go home and sleep, Kisuke. I need to check in with the squads here anyway, and this can wait for one more day, hm?"

The scientist's gaze is far too knowing for comfort, but instead of arguing he just nods, stepping back. "Thank you, thank you," he says, tone as light as if he's joking, even though he looks a little grey with exhaustion. "Your reputation for ruthlessness doesn't do you credit, Kyōraku-san."

"Ruthlessness? Ma," Shunsui protests, though truly _ruthless_ is usually the least of what people say about him. He's one of the longest-serving captains, after all, and that's not a title earned through kindness, no matter what Juushiro likes to play at. "Such disrespect to your elders! I'm the picture of civility!"

Urahara chuckles, waving a lazy farewell over one shoulder as he heads back the way they came. "I wonder what the Primera would have to say about that," he calls cheerfully, only to vanish around the corner before Shunsui can manage a retort.

Shunsui smiles, shaking his head, but the expression fades quickly as he looks at the arch again. The tattered veil is moving, as if in a breeze, and the trail of blood leads right through. If it really is a Senkaimon, or even just something like it, that means Starrk is back in the World of the Living, or has managed to slip into Soul Society undetected. And while Shunsui is far more at ease with Starrk being there than he would Barragan or even that pretty Arrancar woman who took the third-ranked spot, Starrk is still a Hollow, and Shunsui is still a Shinigami.

He'll find Starrk no matter where he has to look, and make sure the Espada is contained by any means necessary. It's his duty, and mannerisms aside, Shunsui has known little else in the last thousand years.


End file.
